


kick at heaven (cry out to the sky)

by sangiebyheart



Series: and no one else. [2]
Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Nobility, Emotional Healing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, I swear the fic is not just pure Angst, Inspired by War & Peace (Tolstoy), M/M, Marriage Proposal, Minor Character Death, Reunions, it will give you some pain but, mentions of past trauma, minor character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27324694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangiebyheart/pseuds/sangiebyheart
Summary: Seasons pass in silence, as a war roars through a devastated country.Or, what happens when Park Seonghwa and Kang Yeosang reunite after three years of war, Jung Wooyoung hides his engagement and Jeong Yunho remains the infamous bachelor that he is.
Relationships: Jung Wooyoung & Kang Yeosang, Kang Yeosang/Park Seonghwa
Series: and no one else. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994404
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	kick at heaven (cry out to the sky)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunwisher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunwisher/gifts).



> hello there! welcome to the sequel to my first [great comet/war & peace inspired fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23516683)!
> 
> i am afraid this fic really relies on the fact that either the first fic is known, or the original book has been read (which would be war & peace by tolstoy). knowledge about the great comet of 1812 should be sufficient as well. (my only source were the musical and the bbc mini-series, both of which i LOVE.)
> 
> i have made significant changes to the original story to fit this one better. so, if you are for some reason here for accuracy to the book, this is not the fic for you. although, yeosang as natasha and seonghwa as pierre are pretty much the same.
> 
> for some potential trigger warnings:  
> \- this fic discusses and mentions a war multiple times. it is a thing of the past, but it is in the character's matters of discussion, as well as yeosang's thoughts.  
> \- yeosang will mention seonghwa's depression, though it won't be detailed because he is not the one experiencing it.  
> \- seonghwa experiences trauma throughout the end of the war. if you wish to know what it is before you dive into the fic, i will write it into the end notes. i promise you, he is in a process of healing, and he has taken and will be taking even more time to address what he has experienced.  
> \- i would also like to note that neither seonghwa nor yeosang are in any sort of way "saved" by the sheer force of love they have for each other. while they have helped and will continue to help each other, i meant to portray their relationship as two people coming together after significant personal growth before they make a decision that impacts both of their futures immensely. if i have failed to show case, please do not hesitate to discuss this with me through my twitter or cc.  
> \- there will be minor character death + injury, and i apologize that it is jongho. it is discussed in more detail in the paragraphs starting from "Wooyoung makes certain..." to "...he shall keep them." and then again, many times mentioned, more so in seonghwa's & yeosang's conversation at the end.
> 
> disclaimer: none of a character's bad choices, characteristics, etc. are meant to reflect on them as real people. this is a piece of fiction. believe me, i know of the lack of jongho-centric fics, and i sure as hell am going to aid to change that, but until then, this is not the fic for him. don't get mad at me please.
> 
> now, i have talked quite a lot.
> 
> one last thing; i dedicate this fic to my friend ray. i asked one day, "who would read that proposal fic?" and she didn't hesitate to say that she would. so this is for her.
> 
> enjoy the fic. :)

Seasons pass in silence, as a war roars through a devastated country.

Yeosang gazes upon a city left in the wake of its destruction, sees palaces rise from their ashes and bid welcome to the straying, watches the wounded in soul and body alike walk without aim, day in, day out, until morning light guides them to a safe harbor, where Yeosang will await them with open arms, providing warm food and a curve of his lips to allow them a small semblance of home.

For now, darkness has fallen, and the city is breathing through the chill of the night. Yunho is tending to their guest downstairs in the entrance hall, making sure that they have everything they need before he retires to the drawing room with Yeosang. 

It had not surprised Yeosang in the slightest that, upon his return to the city after weeks of asylum in the countryside, he had found none other than Count Jeong Yunho transforming the entire first floor of his grand manor into a makeshift shelter, providing as much space and safety for all kinds of people in need of a place to stay as he was able to – the wrath of the flames had left Yunho’s home largely undamaged, which had been sheer luck, as Yunho had told Yeosang upon his own arrival.

Having seen defeat far on their horizon, the enemy forces had seized upon the capital in a last attempt at revenge, at dealing well-deserved comeuppance – a fire had ravaged the city in what must have been a week or an eternity, and many who could had fled the city before any harm would come upon them. Yeosang and his family had been among them, though he had not heard of Yunho’s fate until his return, when Yeosang and Wooyoung discovered their house in ruins and chanced upon Yunho in the streets, a happy coincidence in what appeared to be a dreadful, hopeless world.

Months have passed since then, since Yeosang and Wooyoung have taken up permanent residence in a spare bedroom at Yunho’s home until reparations are finished at their own, though Yeosang knows that his family will ultimately follow their roots back to the countryside, where a big house has been abandoned in favor of the imitation of a small luxury in their capital. His mother has already taken the journey upon herself, hoping that her husband and sons may follow soon to keep her company, though Yeosang grows more and more uncertain as the days go by, for he half-expects Wooyoung to stay in the city forever, if all goes well with this secret suitor of his – no matter how much Yeosang insists, no matter how much he begs to see the love letters they exchange, Wooyoung will not give him a name, only duck away with cheeks as red as love.

Yeosang does not pry into matters not his own, and he lets Wooyoung be if only for the true and honest happiness each and every letter brings – they have been such a comfort to him, even before flames swallowed their home and left them with little finances and insignificant riches, so Yeosang shall not be too overbearing – Wooyoung is going to come to him soon enough, he knows, for his dear cousin would have to ask for a groomsman for his dream wedding if all went well.

Wooyoung is not the type to let himself be fooled, as much as he may act the part. Yeosang shall trust him enough to have made the right choice in men, something Yeosang himself had had much trouble with all these years earlier.

And that – that shall be enough of dark, intrusive thoughts for the night – Yeosang knows he had been younger then, self-conscious and immature and reckless as he was swept away by false charms, but three years were spent repenting, searching forgiveness, searching a path to live his life with the burden of guilt, and he does not fault himself any longer than necessary, not anymore.

It is a thing of the past, a scandal which had seemed as though it was the end of the world – a laughable comparison, with the horrors of war and its many victims behind them, and Yeosang’s mistake has revealed itself to be a thing of no concern. A blip on the horizon, barely-there before it has gone, and for that reason alone, it had taken up too much space for too much time – a fact for which Yeosang feels more shame than he does about the deed itself.

Especially after his last conversation with Prince Jongho.

May his soul rest in peace.

Yeosang heaves a sigh, diving into melancholy, giving into the faint memories of nostalgia.

A door is opened, loud and hard to ignore, and in steps Yunho, no doubt surprised at Yeosang’s sullen demeanor.

“Now, now. Do not tell me you have been thinking for too long again,” Yunho scolds in a gentle tone, half-serious, half-teasing, as he sits down on one of the sofas, the warm glow of yellow candlelight brightening his face.

In the shadows is where Yeosang remains for a while, lamplight from the streets kissing his cheeks through the window. The moon has risen a while ago, and Yeosang remembers a time when he had looked up to ask for company, yearning for Jongho’s loving embrace long after winter, spring, then summer had come and gone, and nowhere in sight was the man he sought to marry. Autumn appeared and swept him away in floods of rain, and the moon had left the sky to taunt Yeosang in his loneliness.

Once, Yeosang believed an illusion, and thought to rediscover it within Song Mingi’s eyes, when all he ever saw was the glimmer of a philanderer, a red flag waving right before him, pushed out of sight as Mingi attempted to convince him with a fiery kiss – and thus, Yeosang fell for a lie.

“Yeosang?” Yunho calls him to attention – on a second try, it appears. “Why don’t you come and join me? I shall have some tea brought in, to settle down after the long day we have had.”

Yeosang smiles at him, identifies the badly-concealed worry underneath the soft expression on Yunho’s face, and he truly hates to disappoint his friend, he really does, but it just so happens to be one of those nights where Yeosang cannot seem to let go of the past’s rough, unforgiving hand.

“Yunho, do you ever wonder,” Yeosang asks, his gaze pulled back to a starry sky, “what our lives may have looked like if we had chosen different routes to move on?”

Yeosang does not have to see Yunho to know how he must now be looking at him – both Count Jeong, as well as his dear cousin Wooyoung, are subjected to Yeosang’s wistfulness and ponderings of imagination from time to time, indulging Yeosang when he feels as though his emotions might otherwise become a tidal wave to drag him under and drown him, like they almost did three years prior. Yeosang can and will proclaim himself at peace, might even dare and call himself happy once or twice, though it would be a lie to say that he has forgotten the possibilities that never were, never will be, nor that his brain shall ever stop allowing a niche for the what-ifs, good as they are bad.

Yunho says, “I cannot say that I do, I am afraid. I am content with the choices I have made and where they have led me. Are you not, my friend?”

“I am,” Yeosang replies, barely a heartbeat passed between them, “I cannot help but wonder, however. I look up at the moon and I see his face, I hear his voice, I know that he is still there, watching over me as he had promised, and I wonder if I could have—if he had returned from war sooner, if I had not made that visit to the city… who knows where I would be, right now. Perhaps, I would be a widower, still. Perhaps, Jongho would be alive and well.”

“Ah, that is the challenge of the past,” Yunho says, rising from the sofa as the piece of furniture utters its protest, and walks over to Yeosang, “it can never be changed, no matter how many questions we ask of it. We can never know what would have happened to you, to Prince Jongho, if your fates were truly meant to be so intertwined.”

Yunho gives him a gentle smile, “But Prince Jongho would not want you to dwell on a life you might have had with him, or with the devil Song Mingi, wherever he is now. And Yeosang, my friend, I am certain that the present will hold so much more value to you if you will only give it enough room so it may banish the past from plaguing your mind.”

Yeosang nods, thoughtful. “I understand your meaning, Yunho. Do not worry, it is merely one of those nights…”

“...When it feels as though something meaningful lies in the air, yet you cannot catch its origins, and soon you shall end up afraid that you might have missed something of importance,” Yunho says, “I feel it, too, if you can believe it. But there is nothing a nice cup of tea cannot help along the way, and the night is still young!”

And there it is, the cheer, the joy, the true life in this house, all encapsulated in one human being – in a man who has never lost faith, who has no concern for society’s expectations of him, who will allow strangers into his very home if only to give them a place of protection from the storm.

Yeosang realizes his shadow will always be one of melancholy, yet now, looking at Yunho’s leave the room to call for his servant to prepare some tea, he sees hope emerge, as well, a friend he shall give proper attention to from now on. 

It is best not to be afraid of it.

Wooyoung joins their conversation a few minutes after the tea has been served, planting himself in the empty seat next to Yeosang, who would be a fool not to notice the folded piece of paper he is clutching in his hold – sometimes, Yeosang wonders if Wooyoung is walking around so openly bragging with his love that he wishes to be asked about, wishes to be caught swooning and dreaming, and yet, a simple name is too much of a revelation to demand.

Across the table, Yeosang’s eyes meet Yunho’s curious, amused gaze, and he wordlessly urges him to inquire about Wooyoung’s precious possession, when a servant appears in the doorway, announcing the presence of a late visitor.

“Who would disturb the house at such a late hour?” Yeosang asks, a frown wrinkling his brows. He nudges Wooyoung’s shoulder, lips playing around a coy smirk. “Could it be your secret suitor, Wooyoungie? Rather bold to come through the front door; for all that you wish to keep his identity to yourself, one would think he might come through the window instead.”

“Ah, don’t be such a menace,” Wooyoung shrieks in protest, and Yeosang chuckles at such an outburst of indignance. After a moment’s consideration, Wooyoung adds, waving his letter in front of Yeosang as though it would make him see what a senseless thing he has just said, “He would never come through the window, I am not some captured royal in a tower!”

“A pity,” Yeosang replies, grin still in place, “if that were the case, we would finally have some peace and quiet in this house.”

It is an old jab, though Wooyoung never fails to voice his complaint as loudly as possible, all the while Yunho waves for the visitor to be brought up to their room, without asking for who it might be.

“Are you not going to ask who is joining us tonight?” Yeosang wonders aloud, and Yunho merely shrugs unceremoniously, a pretty smile on his face Yeosang finds quite dangerous.

“I have a feeling. I have been expecting him for a few days now, you see, and I am hoping he has finally found the time,” Yunho answers, winking at Yeosang, and the action alone perplexes Yeosang endlessly. “He is a very busy man, Yeosang. We shall be thankful should _His Grace_ decide to bless us with this visit.”

Now, there are not too many people Yunho would call _His Grace_ in such a quip, in such exaggeration and disregard of societal ranks, and it has Yeosang’s heart stand still within his ribcage at the realization.

For none other than Park Seonghwa enters the drawing room, at last, clad in a black suit which has seen better days, though still exuding the elegance of a nobleman of his status and courage of a fighter of the heart, of whom Yeosang has heard many tales. His spectacles sit atop his nose as Yeosang remembers them, slightly askew just as Seonghwa’s charm.

Wooyoung covers Yeosang’s hand when shock and relief have his lungs give out for a moment, the soft tap, tap, tap against his skin a reminder to _breathe_. Not even a faint murmur, the teasing lilt of Wooyoung’s voice saying, “Not _my_ suitor, after all,” can shake his attentions at the moment, because— 

Because, _oh_ , for how long Yeosang has waited, has feared for a reunion with a friend as precious as this one – with the one man who had helped him rediscover the sun between the gray clouds in winter’s times, when all Yeosang allowed himself was a cloudy, starless night sky.

Like a shooting star, he appears, tonight of all nights, granting a wish before Yeosang has even uttered it.

“Count Jeong,” Seonghwa greets Yunho, who has stood up from his seat to receive him. His voice is a marvelous sound, speaking of utter content, light and easy and so, so healing. Yeosang’s heart swells as though it is the loveliest of music he is hearing, after years when no note has been played for the sake of survival’s first priority.

“It is good to see you, _your Grace_ ,” Yunho grins, before he pulls Seonghwa into his arms, and laughter rises from both of their throats. “I am more than happy to see you so healthy, up on your feet. I have heard dreadful things about your condition.”

“Ah, yes, I am sorry to hear that. One can never control the whisperings, though I assure you that I am perfectly fine now,” Seonghwa replies. “I hope you will forgive me for intruding so late, but I could not wait to see you. I have been meaning to come for a while now, but you surely understand—”

“Of course, we do not mind, dear Seonghwa. Why don’t you join us for a while, we have just made tea,“ Yunho offers, open politeness visible in the dim light. Yeosang wonders whether Seonghwa has taken note of Wooyoung and him sitting in the room with Yunho, or if the shadows hide them beneath the flicker of a candle‘s flame.

“I—It is a generous offer, but I would not want to be any more of a disturbance than I already am. I merely came to see if you are in need of assistance, financial or otherwise,” Seongwha says, and it truly appears that he is oblivious to the other occupants of the room, because he must have a word or two to exchange with Yeosang, does he not?

So, why would he not make use of them, when time has seen them apart for so long?

The strangest of thoughts have cooked up within Yeosang, their sweltering heat making his blood boil with terrible anticipation, in spite of the knowledge that Yeosang’s abilities to speak and lend them voice have all but forsaken him.

Yunho remains a gentleman of plentiful capability, however, thank goodness, “How kind of you. I would very much like to discuss this matter further with you, tomorrow, perhaps, if time will allow it?”

“Yes, yes, that would be acceptable,” Seonghwa agrees heartily, hastily, nodding with a fervor so fresh and inspiring that it has Yeosang smile when the old Seonghwa still peaks through, with a drop of nerves in the tremble of his voice and his signature awkwardness in his stance, as his hands wrestle amongst themselves. “I would—before I go, I have a selfish question to ask you, if I may?”

Yunho raises an eyebrow in his confusion, for when had they ever known Seonghwa to be anyone else but a selfless man, though he inclines his head just so, giving permission for Seonghwa to ask without shame.

“Would you—” Seonghwa begins, and promptly swallows his tongue, bowing his head. “Do you have any news of the fate of the Kang family? I saw their house destroyed in the flames, and last I have heard of them, they were on their way out of the city but who knows what might have happened to them,” Seonghwa shudders through a shaky breath, as Yeosang’s free hand rises to cover his mouth, muffling a nearly inaudible whimper into silence, while his other one is squeezed to death – what with the force that Wooyoungs grips it now. “Yeosang, especially, I—they are all so dear to me, I could not bear if any harm had come to them.”

Yunho regards him for a moment, at a loss how Seonghwa could have missed the people he all but presumes to be ghosts, but he does not mock Seonghwa with the soft smile on his lips, merely waves his hand in the direction of the other side of the room, to where Yeosang and Wooyoung are sitting, and he boldly asks the question, “Seonghwa, my friend, have you not seen who is with us?”

It is hard to blame the man for his aloofness sometimes; any other time, Yeosang has found it endearing to a fault, attributed it to his unique charm and curious aura. Now, Seonghwa’s eyes finally land upon him, after they tear the shadows apart in their desperate search, and surprise makes way for an abundance of other emotions, too many at once to be so properly deciphered in the darkness.

As if being pulled by invisible strings, Yeosang jumps up as Seonghwa comes closer, and they both reach out their hands to _touch;_ however, neither of them possesses enough courage to ask for the treasure before them, fingers twitching with want, with the yearning only three years of separation could procure, but they fall to their sides as lost souls meet, found at last.

“Yeosang,” Seonghwa says, breathless with his disbelief, and this time, his hand does take ahold of Yeosang’s, pressing a tender kiss to its back. He lingers, pouring his entire heart into the gesture, and Yeosang cannot help but tear up at the sight – nothing short of such devotion does he expect of Park Seonghwa, and yet it is no less overwhelming.

“ _Your Grace_ ,” Yeosang tries, a generous whisper, a smile gracing his lips. 

Yeosang does not mean for the formality to slip out, though he is glad it does so in a playful tone – it startles a laugh out of Seonghwa, after all, whose hold is warm and lovely and intoxicating.

“And what am I, chopped liver?” Wooyoung chirps up from the side, open mouth in the shape of a grin, “I understand Yeosang is our good little boy, but I survived a war, as well. _And_ I am part of the Kang family, thank you very much.”

“I have not once doubted that,” Seongwha chuckles, nodding his head at Wooyoung in acknowledgment of his antics. “I am happy to discover you just as cheeky as I remember you, Jung Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung preens, satisfied with the attention. “I live to please, your Highness.”

Yeosang has to roll his eyes, and Seonghwa watches him out of the corner of his vision, an amused crinkle beneath his eyes the unintended result. It feels as though a secret is passed between them.

Then, Seonghwa carefully lets go of Yeosang – a movement deliberate in its gradualness, to signify his reluctance, Yeosang is sure – and takes two steps towards Wooyoung, bowing before him at last. “I must admit that I have already heard of your residence in the city, courtesy of Choi San.”

“Choi San?” Yeosang frowns, perplexed as he briefly blinks out of his reverie, of the dream he has had. The name leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, if only for his former associations with Song Mingi, a fellow conspirator in the plot to take Yeosang away. 

What could he possibly want with Wooyoung?

One suspicious look at Wooyoung, and he appears like a frightened animal in Yeosang’s firing line, shrinking in on himself, just so – a fact that Seonghwa does not take notice of, for he delivers the killing blow, mercilessly, yet obliviously, “I hear congratulations are in order, too. For your engagement to the man! Dare I say, it is one of the finer matches I have seen in quite some time, you both must be very happy.”

“Engagement?!” Yeosang calls, the unexpected change in volume scaring poor Seonghwa, whose head whips around fast to see what the problem is. If Yeosang were not as distraught about this sudden revelation, he would offer his hand back in reassurance, sending a quiet promise that it has nothing to do with Seonghwa’s well-wishes, but everything to do with Wooyoung's audacity to keep something so _astonishing_ a secret.

“I—I apologize, I did not know—” Seonghwa begins, trailing off into silence when the tension in the room stuffs his mouth with cotton, the dry texture robust and harsh.

For once in his life, Wooyoung must have lost his voice in fear of the fury of his cousin dearest, as he remains seated with his tongue swallowed down his throat, wide eyes twitching between an equally as anxious Seonghwa, and a righteously angered Yeosang, whose eyebrows have knitted together into a tight frown.

He cannot believe his cousin would betray him like this – had he not learned from Choi San's first attempts at courtship, when Wooyoung had been glad enough to get rid of him before Choi San could muster up the senseless hope of ever marrying into their family?

Had he forgotten that it had been Choi San to look on and watch as Song Mingi seduced and bewitched men and women left and right, Yeosang among them, uncaring for the status of the relationship or the fragility of the soul he intended to corrupt?

It had been none other than Wooyoung who had stood by Yeosang's side throughout the torturous affairs of the past three years, who had protected Yeosang from becoming the next victim in a long line of the fools of deception. What motives could he possibly have to exchange love letters with a man of such crude association, what reasons could there be to justify the harm done to the person closest to him?

“Now I understand,” Yeosang mutters, in a dark, low tone he himself finds most unpleasant. “Why you would not even tell me his name.”

“I am sorry, Yeosang,” Wooyoung attempts an apology, standing to rush to Yeosang’s side, but Yeosang steps back when Wooyoung comes closer, in no mood to receive the appeasing touch which once brought him so much comfort – now, Yeosang imagines that it might as well burn his skin, brand him a naive child yet a second time. Wooyoung sounds dejected, regretful, as he continues, “I meant to tell you, I truly did, but—I knew it would not be an easy matter to discuss. It was difficult to gauge your reaction, I was afraid it would not be—well.”

“If I may speak up in his defense,” Seonghwa interjects, expression placid now that he is aware of their unfortunate predicament, “I apologize for—being the bearer of the, uh, bad news, so to speak,” (Wooyoung grimaces, lips pursing,) “but Imperial Officer Choi San is not as you remember him, dear Yeosang.”

Yeosang’s eyes fall to Seonghwa once more, trying and failing not to let more and more disappointment cloud his vision with the onslaught of tears – it is challenging, to say the least, when you place so much trust into someone you have allowed into your heart, only to find them going behind your back to plan out a life in secret. Out of all of the people he knows, he would not have expected either Wooyoung or Seonghwa to do so.

“Not as I remember him?” Yeosang counters in a sharp bite. “I remember him as a man who did not care for the life of others, who did as he pleased, and enabled Song Mingi to plan out _my abduction_!”

“He did not!” Wooyoung insists, directing his gaze at Seonghwa. “Seonghwa, please, tell him. I doubt Yeosang will believe a word out of my mouth right now.”

Yeosang has half a mind to open his mouth in denial, though he finds that it would come as a lie. 

“It is true that Choi San had some play in your abduction. Yet, although it is not enough to absolve him off his crimes against morality, it is very important to note that he did not know you, nor your engagement to Prince Jongho,” Seonghwa tells him, pausing a moment to search his eyes, proving to him that all they shall ever reflect is pure honesty. “He _did_ repeatedly tell Song Mingi what a foolish man he was for seeking your affections, however, as he knew of Song Mingi’s own pre-existing marriage.”

“What does it matter that he did not know me, if he was willing to aid Song Mingi in his schemes in the first place?!” Yeosang returns, still furious with the news. If it had not been Yeosang, it could have been any man or woman in his stead, and that did not make it any better at all.

What matters, in the end, is Wooyoung’s desire to make Yeosang _see_ , asking something so impossible of him that he may only achieve it through bold pleas, “Please, Yeosang, allow me to explain before you make a final judgment of him. There is more to him than just his association with Song Mingi, and you know I will never choose to hurt you if I can help it.”

Bewildered and conflicted, Yeosang stares Wooyoung down, who retaliates with as much stubbornness as Yeosang fires at him. Doubt claws at him, tickling his throat until it constricts, as his rationality tells him that Wooyooung does not deserve to be at the end of Yeosang’s own insecurities – for a bond like theirs, as close as brothers as they are, is neither forged nor destroyed within seconds, and thus, Yeosang knows it would be unfair to distrust him without allowing the explanation to save them.

It helps, then, that Seonghwa’s hand returns with just the hint of a touch, subtle and feather-light, as he murmurs, almost shyly, “I think it would be wise to listen.”

But would it, Yeosang wonders, when the icy demon Yeosang carries in his chest is stubborn and unforgiving, unleashing its full power whenever Yeosang’s thoughts circle too closely around those few weeks all those years ago – he has managed to keep its wrath at bay for so long, since he did not expect to confront any of these damned souls ever again. Yeosang feels dread curl in his stomach, guilt pulse through his veins, as he would not want to be the sole reason Wooyoung forsakes his happiness, knowing he would do so if Yeosang only asked – as Yeosang would do the same for him, though that hardly proves a solution to this dilemma.

Yeosang does not want eternal resentment to transform him into a soul of bitterness.

He does not realize that Seonghwa is guiding him towards the sofa until he lands on the soft cushion, a steady hand on his shoulder. 

“How long?” He asks Wooyoung, who does not hesitate to give his answer, in spite of the momentary confusion the question brings. 

“I accepted his proposal a week ago,” Wooyoung says, biting his lips. “We—we have been exchanging letters ever since before the fires, you know this. You were out with your parents at the time, but he came by our house one night to inform us that the soldiers were approaching the capital, and that we had best find a safe place, for they would surely do us harm if we stayed.”

“So you reconsidered him as a suitor?” Yeosang scoffs, “Just like that?”

Wooyoung grits his teeth, and Yeosang much regrets his unnecessarily sharp tone.

“No, he merely offered his assistance should I ever find myself in need of it, so I wrote him a letter to convey my gratitude,” Wooyoung explains, “I only meant to be polite, for I knew of his connections to Song Mingi, but he wrote back with such heart, I—”

Wooyoung’s mouth twitches into a small smile, a blink in the grand scheme of things as he tries to hide it beneath a frown in the very next second, for Yeosang’s sake, but it is already too late. The fondness of the memory is something Wooyoung cannot conceal, as much as he wishes to.

“I did not mean to fall for him, Yeosang,” Wooyoung swears, sitting close to Yeosang, their thighs touching, and as Wooyoung takes his hands into his, there is an urgency about him that begs Yeosang to understand, “but he is such a kind soul, I could not believe it. I thought myself just a fool for reading and replying to his letters, again and again, and yet, as time went on, I feared for him out there on the battlefields as much as he feared for my safety far away from them.”

Of course, Yeosang had forgotten – Choi San is an officer in the Imperial Army, decorated and infamous for his loyalty and determination when it comes to fulfilling his duties. He must have fought at the frontlines, chasing away the enemy until none were left and would ever dare return.

Not that his acts to defend their country are in any way redemption to a bad character – after all, the military is a place full of hot-headed, arrogant people, none quite so satisfied with necessary defense as much as the impetuous offense.

“I know what you are thinking right now,” Wooyoung says, a rueful smile on his lips. “But San is not one of the bad people we have come to know, I assure you. He commanded the rescue of those unfortunate war prisoners who were walked out of the city with the enemy troops last winter – they were halfway across the country and his superiors were ready to call it off by the time San had found them, though he never gave up searching for them.”

Barely a soul survived, Yeosang remembers.

A man came to Yunho’s manor just a month before, speaking grand tales of the march through the icy forests and snowstorms biting at skin and heart. Only those who had come close to knocking on death’s door were rushed to the nearest town to receive treatment, others who still found enough spirit within them walked back the great distance, to find that the precious capital they had left behind was no better sight to the sorest of eyes.

Still, to most anyone, the lives of these people appeared seemingly insignificant, hardly worth the effort – so it does speak for itself that Choi San meant to rise to the occasion to save them from certain demise.

To Yeosang’s surprise, Yunho chooses this moment to add to the conversation, after having been suspiciously quiet for some time, “This man, Choi San, has done us many good deeds. For without him, we might not be in the presence of one of our dearest friends.”

Yeosang feels the hand on his shoulder tense before it falls away entirely. When he looks up to identify the cause, Seonghwa has his eyes trained on Yunho, relaying a private message with the force of a glare alone. Yeosang fixes Yunho with a frown when his inquisitive stares remain unanswered, “What do you mean by that?”

Yunho merely hums in response, folding his hands in his lap, as he addresses Seonghwa instead of him, “I believe you should tell them.”

“Tell us?” Wooyoung asks, “Tell us what?”

“Count Jeong, I do not see how this particular piece of information you are imploring me to reveal could be of importance in this discussion,” Seonghwa says, a voice so devoid of emotion yet filled to the brim with _warning_ unlike Yeosang has ever heard from him. He would have never guessed Seonghwa was even capable of such coolness. “Nor how you yourself could have possibly gotten by the knowledge.”

“Not through Choi San, if you are worried about that. I do, however, have other sources,” Yunho says, still the epitome of calm, even as Seonghwa’s entire demeanor shifts to something dark and unpleasant. The room falls victim to a loaded silence, then, for Seonghwa appears to be in no mood to relay his secret, as much Yunho’s patience urges him to. “I understand your reluctance to share your experience, but your secret is safe with us, I assure you.”

“Has it occurred to you that it might be a secret for a reason?” Seonghwa replies, pain flowing into the cold of his tone. Yeosang has half a heart to get up and drape his arms around Seonghwa, if only to melt the icy pricks puncturing the smoothness of his skin, infecting the blood beneath with a poison that deteriorates his entire being.

Yeosang is aware that Seonghwa is as entitled to his secrets as any other man, as he believed Wooyoung to be, as well – he would not force Seonghwa to reveal something that would only cause harm to his soul, though he would certainly put his mind at ease and promise no judgment.

Judgment is what it must all be about, truly – Wooyoung feared for Yeosang’s, Yeosang feared for their society’s – Seonghwa could hardly be any different. Yeosang remembers him, often the laughing stock of their entire social circle, if only for the fact that his husband tended to ridicule him if given the opportunity, and Seonghwa did not have the confidence nor the drive to defend himself in the way he should have, so he remained quiet, ignorant, naive, to all the chatter around him.

Yeosang knows how much it has affected him, even if he never openly addressed it; a man of his standing, of his wealth, does not simply end up hiding out within his own four walls while his husband makes use of the good money he possesses.

Though now that Yeosang ponders upon it, now that he is closer to Seonghwa than he has been in three years and the unsolicited demands dictated by arrogance are no longer either of their immediate concern, there appears to be something else causing Seonghwa to hide a part of his life beneath a mask of steel, something so terrible and monstrous he does not wish to give more power than it deserves.

For the time being, Yeosang shall let it go; there are other matters to discuss, and he would not want Seonghwa to run from the house by causing him unnecessary discomfort. He has not seen him in so long, wondered where he was, what he did, if he thought of him, too, and with every heartbeat he sent with the wind, he hoped trouble and agony would stay far away from him in those horrible months of war haunting their country.

“Whatever it is, if Seonghwa does not wish to tell us, we should respect his decision,” Yeosang says.

Seonghwa’s face relaxes immensely, and he offers up a smile that lifts his lips into a gentle curve, “Thank you, Yeosang.”

Yunho clasps his hands together in front of his mouth, palm against palm, mild exasperation escaping him in a sigh, though he does not insist as Yeosang expects.

“Perhaps I should go,” Seonghwa clears his throat, and Yeosang’s heart skips a beat. “I believe this discussion should not take place with me here, anyhow, as it is a private matter between you two—” 

“Wait!” Yeosang shouts, rising abruptly, and it startles the entire room.

Seonghwa has not made a move yet, and still, Yeosang is afraid he might as well vanish before his very eyes if he does not do something to prevent it. The outburst is the dire consequence, the unintentional portrayal of his greatest fear. Though now, as Seonghwa regards him with a perplexed gaze, Yeosang feels the words play a trick on him, watches them scramble into a chaos of letters before his inner eye, a helpless witness in their taunting dance.

Yeosang has succumbed to his desperation, impulsiveness taking over. 

“You—you cannot go, you have only just arrived,” Yeosang croaks out, uncaring for how pathetic it might come across.

“Ah, Yeosang, I do not think—”

“ _Please_ ,” he all but begs, swallowing any semblance of pride. “Stay for another while.”

_Stay forever, if you will. I am not prepared to let you out of my sight._

Seonghwa stares at him with an open mouth, in as terrible a fight with his vocal cords as Yeosang is cursed to be. 

That must be it, Yeosang thinks. He has scared him away by asking for too much, too soon.

But then, when Yeosang is ready to apologize for his inappropriate behavior, Seonghwa gathers his hands into his, the grip warm and rejuvenating, setting his heart into motion once again after it had stopped in trepidation. In much the same manner as he had done before, he kisses Yeosang’s palm with unhindered emotion.

“I will return tomorrow,” he promises and tugs at Yeosang to let himself be pulled further in, further into Seonghwa’s space, and who would Yeosang be if he denied him?

The kiss on his forehead comes as an unexpected, though certainly not unwelcome surprise.

Since when has Seonghwa gotten so bold?

So openly defiant of the voice inside of him asking him to hide himself and his feelings away, for society would have deemed it an improper display of affection between two unmarried people, who have neither expressed their desire for a courtship nor taken yet another step further and announced their engagement.

Seonghwa moves away from him all too soon, though now Yeosang knows why he has no choice but to go – there is too much weight on his heart he wishes to share with Yeosang, just as much as Yeosang himself has carried for years, if not more.

They could not possibly lift it tonight, not when Yeosang’s mind must sort through the whirlwind of Wooyoung’s engagement first.

And so, Yeosang watches Seonghwa take his leave, Yunho escorting him out.

Yeosang is left standing in the middle of the room, Wooyoung regarding him anxiously, and by the time Yeosang snaps out of his momentary dream of what tomorrow might bring, Wooyoung is already rising to retire to their room with a bowed head and an empty expression. 

Yeosang cannot have that; they did not give lifelong promises to one another, only for Yeosang’s grudge to come between them in the end.

Therefore Yeosang grabs his cousin, his best friend, his brother by the shoulders and draws him into a tight embrace, Wooyoung releasing an involuntary shriek at the force of it.

“Are you truly happy with him?” Yeosang asks him, Wooyoung’s arm winding around his torso.

Wooyoung holds him tight, “I am.”

Yeosang takes in a shaky breath, “And you love him? You are certain?”

“Very certain,” Wooyoung answers. Yeosang feels his smile against his neck.

“He loves you?” Yeosang still asks, and Wooyoung nods eagerly in response. “Why, then it is true what you have told me tonight, he must be a very brave soul to put up with a menace such as you.”

Wooyoung pulls back to gawk at him, and Yeosang expects the light punch to his shoulder when it hits, a grin appearing on his face. Wooyoung makes a noise of complaint, though he does smile back eventually.

“Thank you, Yeosang.”

Yeosang is amazed at the sight of unshed tears in Wooyoung’s eyes, light reflecting in his irises with each flicker of the candle, but he pulls him close again, just so he does not have to see.

  
  


Later that night, Yeosang and Wooyoung find themselves huddled close underneath the blankets, candlelight falling on several opened envelopes scattered across the surface, as they giggle about the written words beneath. Wooyoung has asked whether he would like to read them, now that he has knowledge of Wooyoung’s engagement, and although Yeosang remains rather suspicious of Choi San and the curious revival of this relationship, it was abundantly clear that Wooyoung has been dying to talk about the conversations he and San share, if only to pour his heart out and gush about how sweet of a man Choi San could truly be. Yeosang did not have the heart to deny him, nor would he refuse the opportunity to be scrutinizing the man without asking for his presence first.

What Yeosang has found, though, within some fifteen letters exchanged over the course of the past year, through cities in flames and war battles roaring, is the natural kindness and fierce determination a simple man such as him offers in his writings.

Yeosang understands it now, the urge to write back – if his letters to Seonghwa had found the man during his travels, then during the time he spent with Prince Jongho on the battlefield and afterwards when the fires consumed the city, then Yeosang would have been nothing short of elated to find comfort in someone so far from you, but growing closer to your heart and your soul all the same.

He is glad Wooyoung has found Choi San amidst the chaos and the despair which threw all of their lives for a loop, making them sick and tired of the misery around them – the future appears brighter this way, happier, full of promise. His delight for his cousin blooms and blooms with every sentence Wooyoung accompanies with an anecdote of the moment he has read it, those lovely lines now engraved into his mind for eternity.

It is late, past midnight already, when they reach the second-to-last letter, Wooyoung’s grin nearly splitting his face in two. He is radiant like this, and so, so clearly in love, he makes it far too easy for Yeosang to forgive and forget.

“Guess,” Wooyoung demands out of the blue, “when did he send this letter? Do not peek at the date, I dare you!”

Yeosang blinks at him, a frown drawing pretty lines on his face. Why Wooyoung has decided to make this into a child’s game, all of a sudden, is beyond Yeosang’s comprehension, though he plays along, for his cousin’s sake. It is an easy enough estimate, he should say – the previous letter had detailed Choi San’s intention to lead the rescue party for those poor war prisoners, giving a beautifully colored promise to return as soon as he is able to finally meet Wooyoung for the first time since their courtship began.

Yeosang supposes that a man of his profession does not have a lot of time to craft his heart into a letter when he is busy with such a valiant undertaking, so he must have sent it upon his much-awaited arrival, just six weeks ago.

He tells Wooyoung as much and swats his hands away as his cousin goes to pinch his cheek to congratulate him on the correct answer. “Aren’t you a clever boy?” He all but coos, eyes crinkling in glee. “You are correct. It was delivered just five weeks ago. We were busy in the entrance hall when it came, I could barely sneak away for a moment to read it.”

Yeosang chuckles at the by now familiar greeting of ‘ _His dearest and most beloved Wooyoungie,_ ’ as Wooyoung unfolds the many pages in his hands, but Wooyoung has him shut up quickly when he says, “I would ask you to stop laughing at me and remember that your Seonghwa would most certainly address you in much the same manner, thank you very much.”

Caught off guard, Yeosang stumbles through his rebuttal, a weak attempt at denial, “He is hardly _my_ Seonghwa.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Wooyoung hums, absent-mindedly, though he cannot hold back the grin emerging on his face. Yeosang’s cheeks fill with an unmistakable warmth as Wooyoung adds, pretending indifference, “Though his heart is definitely yours already.”

Now, Wooyoung and him, they never miss any opportunity to tease one another – they never have and they never will – and yet, this is something entirely different. Wooyoung has picked up on his infatuation with one of their oldest friends and is currently implying a meaning where none has been laid out in the open yet.

Not recently, at least, though Yeosang would be a fool not to read into Seonghwa’s display of affections just tonight, and Yeoang does not have any qualms to admit his own budding feelings towards the man. An inkling of them has been planted so many years ago, he thinks, as he remembers their natural compatibility and the easy laughter when they met as youths, both rather awkward around most new acquaintances. It grew and grew into a spring flower and remained in place even as Seonghwa’s duties often called him away, and Yeosang’s engagement to Prince Jongho became a more frequent, more urgent thing to think about.

In all of his despair just three years past, after the refusal of a man who could have loved Yeosang for this life and the next, and that horrible trick played on his person due to one Song Mingi, the flower had started to wilt out of neglect, for Yeosang believed there was no place for a spring flower in winter’s time.

It blossomed again, when Seonghwa offered his comforts even as Yeosang tried to push him away, and yet it was Seonghwa’s reminder of Yeosang’s worth that had those vivid colors return to him in a matter of seconds.

The words Seonghwa spoke to him that night have lingered in the back of his head for so long now, Yeosang does not believe he could ever forget them, nor the honest display of vulnerability Seonghwa offered to him.

No more than a dream cooked up by his imagination had it been, then; not quite a possibility for either of them.

But now – _oh_.

Seonghwa is unmarried.

“Do you think so?” Yeosang asks. “Do you really believe that—he and I?”

Wooyoung regards him with a smile. “I do believe so, yes. He could barely take his eyes off you tonight. He never could, with how lovestruck he has always been.”

“ _Lovestruck…_ ” Yeosang whispers under his breath, finding it almost hard to believe that Seonghwa’s affections could reach so far into their past. Though, now that Wooyoung has mentioned it – those lingering looks, the unceasing kindness, his unmatched generosity – none of it had ever rung any alarm bells in Yeosang’s brain, not until now, not until he looked at them again through hindsight.

“Yes, yes, Seonghwa is in love with you, he does not know how not to be, what a marvelous revelation!” Wooyoung says, waving his hands with the letter before his face to snap Yeosang out of his dream. “Now let us move on to the important matters at hand,” he demands, raising his eyebrows at Yeosang once he has regained his full attention.

Yeosang scoffs, but his heart is elsewhere.

A laugh escapes him, since Wooyoung expects nothing less than his immediate compliance to his wishes, asking for certainty that his mind shall not be adrift just for one night.

“I apologize,” Yeosang tells him, then, to appease him, draws out his words to communicate the sarcasm intertwining with the serious promise to allow for Wooyoung to take center stage. 

With all that has been going on in their lives, Wooyoung had done himself quite the misdeed by putting Yeosang and their family first, especially in the aftermath of Yeosang’s refusal of the Prince and the failed abduction through Song Mingi. Wooyoung has always been the brighter, the louder, the chattier of the two, setting his mind towards a goal of transforming even someone as shy as Yeosang into a social butterfly.

A scandal can do quite a bit of harm to a family’s reputation – and Wooyoung took one step back, then another, only showing himself in circles that would never drag the Kang family through the mud because of a man’s foolish decisions, and even if they did, Wooyoung was a definite force of defense, ensuring that they never lost their connection to a society that blamed the victim before they cared for the full story.

In short, Yeosang had been the cause for Wooyoung’s inevitable withdrawal from glamorous parties and the occasional club visits, and by the time war had trudged through mud and snow and ice, Wooyoung had long since made it his priority to take over the dealings of the house, when Yeosang’s father had been struck with a sudden illness that even prevented their flight from the city until the very last second.

Yeosang does not think he could have forgiven himself if Wooyoung had let this shot at happiness go, for Yeosang’s sake. He deserves more than a life of constant self-sacrifice.

“Please tell me,” Yeosang says, softer, sincerer than before. “How did your Choi San charm you in this letter?”

Wooyoung smiles at him, “He asked me to meet him. To receive him. See, he is ‘ _madly in need to be by my side, at last, or else he shall perish at the hands of loneliness_ ’.”

“Rather dramatic,” Yeosang mumbles, but this does not seem to faze Wooyoung too much, who shrugs in response.

“Mind you, he and I are engaged for a reason,” Wooyoung says, and then, the fondness returns to his irises, glimmering with love. “You would think that a man like him would not be afraid of anything, but when he proposed to me, he—it was as though he could not muster up one word. I will not lie, it hurt to—to ask him to wait for my answer.”

Yeosang feels his breath catch. “You—you asked him to wait?”

“How could I not? I had never told you about him, about our relationship, and what if you—well. I did not wish to make you uncomfortable. I did not want to choose between you and him, for I could never lose my family, but was it worth denying San my love?”

No; Yeosang would have never forgiven himself.

“Wooyoung,” he begins, voice thick with regret and guilt, gripping Wooyoung’s hand tightly. “I am sorry. I am sorry you felt so pressured to make a choice, I am sorry I made you keep your happiness to yourself for so long. Most of all, I apologize for being the worst friend to you I could possibly be.”

“No, Yeosang—”

“I mean it, Wooyoung, don’t you lie to me saying that it does not matter to you,” Yeosang insists. His hands are not the only ones trembling with shame. “What you have done for me all of these years is something I shall treasure within my heart forever, and I could never repay you with equal kindness, no matter how hard I try. I have watched you renounce anything and everything that was precious to you to take care of me and our family, and now, there was a chance I could have taken away an opportunity at marriage for you?”

Yeosang pauses, shaking his head. “We have been through disastrous times, you and I. Wouldn’t you agree that you finally deserve to be a little selfish?”

Wooyoung is silent for a moment, but he nods, staring into Yeosang’s soul with an expression of earnestness. 

For all of the time Yeosang has known Wooyoung, he has come to see him as a soul so radiant, Yeosang cannot help but feel as though he is in the presence of the very sun itself. His light will tickle his skin in a pleasing sort of warmth, and not many words are needed to make him feel like he is floating above the clouds.

Every time Wooyoung will resort to seriousness, however, Yeosang knows to trust that Wooyoung will choose his words with care, though he shall not mince them either.

“ _We_ deserve to be a little selfish,” Wooyoung says, placing the palm of his free hand atop their interlocked fingers, “but you must realize that you are not somehow indebted to me because I have taken care of you. After all, if anyone owes a debt, it is me. When my parents died, your parents had no obligation to take me in, and yet they did, and I shall forever be grateful for that.”

“No more grateful than I am for having gained a brother,” Yeosang whispers, tears overcoming him without his permission – how dare they appear right at this moment, when this should be a joyous occasion for his cousin, finally getting to share the contents of his hearts after hiding the key away for so long. Wooyoung pulls him into his arms, to make it easier for Yeosang to open the lock, but to console him, too, chase away those dreadful droplets before they become a shower of rain.

Yeosang clears his throat, trying to rid himself of the demon and its nest, for darkness does not grant a free pass to sneak into their cocoon and make permanent residence, and Yeosang has learned to urge it up and away as soon as he takes but a step over the threshold.

Once sense and voice are in his possession again, Yeosang gently takes the letter from Wooyoung’s hand, reading those lines that bared a soul to Wooyoung – his eyes fall to the end of the page, where a love confession is curling its way around a hand-drawn image of a flower, shades of gray painting the many layers of a carnation blooming.

Yeosang reads aloud, hoping his voice will not surrender, “ _'I look forward to the day I shall be able to present you with real flowers, carnations in red, pink, in white, in any color imaginable that shall express how much I love you, how much I admire your strength, your courage, your sensibility. It shall not be long now, my love.'_ ”

Yeosang’s mouth curves into a smile, “A man with such tendencies towards romance would have been rather devastated had you rejected him.”

“I did not reject him,” Wooyoung reminds him, in a tone that asks Yeosang to stop blaming himself for the things Wooyoung had thought, had believed he needed to do for Yeosang, when in reality, there was no need for Yeosang to ever doubt that Wooyoung would hold onto his own desire for happiness. “I was scared of how you would react to our relationship, that is true. I was scared I would lose you, lose him, or lose both of you, but I—in the end, I wanted nothing more than to marry this wonderful man. And I knew that—you and I, we are not broken down so easily. Did we not promise each other not to let a man tear us apart? I had to believe that meant something to you.”

“It does,” Yeosang agrees in an instant, his absent mind commanding his thumb to caress the penciled flower beneath his touch, “I am still—”

“No more of that, Yeosang,” Wooyoung says. “I have had enough of the apologies for one night. All is forgiven, all is forgotten. What matters now, is our future; a future in which I intend for you to be by my side when I marry the man I love.”

“Of course,” Yeosang promises, nodding with a fervor to match Wooyoung’s. “And… will you be by mine, when the time comes?”

The knowing smirk on Wooyoung’s lips brings back the menace into their heartfelt conversation, though it does not make Wooyoung sound any less sincere, “I will be. Sooner than you might think.”

Yeosang ignores the teasing wiggle of Wooyoung’s eyebrows in favor of skimming through the rest of the letter, the entire front page a retelling of the last few days of the war, and the troubles of their rescue mission as their days grew colder through the midst of winter. Choi San reports of the utter hopelessness in the days leading up to the miraculous discovery of the prisoners, and recounts a bad joke of one of his subordinates that he must have thought would make Wooyoung laugh in the midst of all the grimness – it does, embarrassingly enough, as Wooyoung snorts when Yeosang retells it.

(“You would not understand,” Wooyoung explains, when all Yeosang does is frown in response, for the joke could count as anything though certainly not as good humor. “It is a private joke, just between the two of us.”

Wooyoung is right in that; Yeosang does not understand just what about umbrellas could ever be so particularly amusing, but he lets it pass.)

“From what he tells here, it must have been a rough couple of months,” Yeosang says, and Wooyoung falls against his side, a palm pressed against his forehead as he pretends to faint.

“And all that has kept him going the entire time was the prospect of seeing me when he returned home!” Wooyoung swoons with a sweet, melodious voice. “It is _so_ romantic!”

Yeosang groans as he pushes Wooyoung upright again, complaining about how he should leave some of this clinginess for his husband-to-be and not plague Yeosang with it any longer – Wooyoung sees right through him, for Yeosang only ever expresses his dissatisfaction with Wooyoung’s antics for show.

Wooyoung has once been told that he was hard not to love, no matter what he did – curse His Grace Park Seonghwa – and ever since then, Wooyoung had taken it as an incentive to do as he pleased with those closest to him, with a sweet claim on his lips that said he would be a delight to them in any manner he could.

Though, in all honesty, Yeosang was inclined to agree with Seonghwa’s observations, as Yeosang cannot think of anyone else, save for Yunho perhaps, who would be just as lovable and charming as Jung Wooyoung. But he is not about to let Wooyoung know this, of course. He has a reputation to lose.

So, before he does something foolish, such as giving a feigned-hurt Wooyoung with his exaggerated pout the time of day, he reads on.

Then, he stops.

Reads over the section before his eyes.

Scans over it multiple times.

Frowns.

“Wooyoung?” Yeosang nudges him, sobering up quickly when the words, phrase by phrase, are edged into his mind with a burning blade. “Take a look at this.”

_To my utter surprise, I discovered a nobleman among the prisoners, hardly in any better condition than most of the others. I recognized him as an old friend of mine, whom I had not seen in many years. He cried as he saw me, and as though I was his guardian angel finally coming to save him, he kissed my cheek and my hands in gratitude, and I was too shocked at the sight of him to do anything but stand there and watch._

_I cannot recall whether you have ever mentioned knowing him or not, but I believe if I spoke the name, you surely would have heard it somewhere. He has asked me not to reveal his identity, though, and as I am a man of honor these days, I shall keep my promise to him._

_However a man of his standing and wealth could have gotten mixed up with the common folk picked by those petty soldiers, I do not understand. I was told to expect people from the bottom of the heap, not a soul who could have just as easily bought himself out of the war. I did not wish to pry, so I let him be at first. He did tell me his story eventually, which I shall not share either, as per his request._

_The years of the war appeared to have left a mark on him, that is for certain, but the entire way back to the city, the amount of hopefulness he exuded was quite unlike I have ever known of him. There was a constant smile on his face, peaceful, almost. It was a strange sight._

_It appeared as though he was most serene._

Wooyoung looks thoroughly confused, not quite getting what Yeosang is already fearing, “What…?”

“Does that not sound like someone we know? A friend of ours? _A friend whose presence we owe to none other than Choi San_ ?” Yeosang fires out, heart beating out of his ribcage with dread. Yunho’s words echo within his head, bouncing off the walls faster each time, and it makes him straighten up his spine and curl his fingers tight around the page within his hands. “ _Choi San has done us many good deeds!_ Oh, Jeong Yunho, that ambiguous fool! He knew!”

“Yeosang, what are you talking about?” Wooyoung asks, clearly agitated with the way Yeosang is speaking in as many riddles as Yunho did earlier tonight, searching for his answers within a letter Yeosang is clutching to his chest.

“Do you not see it?” Yeosang asks, standing from the bed as his blood begins boiling with the realization, and his muscles ache from the sudden movement, but his brain does not take note of it. Too preoccupied is he with the fate of his dearest friend, and instinct calls Yeosang to arms to shield him from harm that has already befallen him. “The nobleman Choi San is describing… it is Seonghwa!”

Seonghwa is the man who had walked thousands of miles through the winter’s cold, who had been taken prisoner after the fires burned their city to the ground, who had shown the courage to protect what he loves and paid a bitter price for it.

“Now I see...” Yeosang mumbles under his breath, ignorant of Wooyoung's concerned gaze, as though he was watching someone succumb to madness. “I see why he would not want to share. Why no one has heard anything from him for months, why rumors of his condition circled around the city… It makes sense, all of it.”

The fire within him dies out as quickly as it came, doused by the sheer incredulity that is left within him. 

Seonghwa – kind, lovely, selfless Seonghwa – has had to suffer through so many hardships, a soul such as him does not deserve half of them; a father who would not care for him, a husband who would not love him, a depression so deeply rooted in his head, and yet, he has persevered through all of it, has stood up in spite of it.

But does that give fate a free pass to send him from smoke into smother?

His shaky legs give out before he can help himself, and Yeosang's hand tries to catch his fall by grabbing onto the bed pole, though Yeosang sinks to the ground before he can help it, too burdened is he by that cold hand on his shoulder dragging him to the pits of hell. 

The letter slips from his grasp, at last, the involuntary messenger of gruesome news.

  
  
  
  


Wooyoung makes certain that Yeosang falls asleep before he does, if only because he worries Yeosang might resort to forsaking sleeping altogether if he does not force him to bed. Yeosang has not made use of his act of the sleeper at peace ever since Wooyoung had watched over him in the aftermath of Song Mingi’s seduction, when Yeosang would protest against the calls for rest and sit by the window to wait for the arrival that would never come. Tonight, Yeosang remembers it, waits until Wooyoung’s fatigue wins over his stubborn determination, and he almost does fall asleep before the rustling of the sheets wakes him once again.

Yeosang walks towards the window, then, the moon high in the sky as he pulls the curtains aside, waiting for him.

Three years ago, his eyes would scan the streets for Song Mingi, hoping for his return as though he was a knight to break him out of the prison tower that was this house.

Yeosang does not dwell on Song Mingi anymore; he has long since grown past waiting for the wrong people, though that does not mean he has forgotten how to wait for what makes it worth it.

So, before the night shall pass within the blink of an eye, Yeosang looks up. Just a while longer, he knows, until the moon will answer him. Jongho promised, after all – to be there whenever Yeosang needed him.

Prince Jongho had been Seonghwa’s friend, too – Yeosang knows they fought together, once, but they had lost sight of each other in the midst of the battle that had Jongho greatly wounded, and he did not recall whether Seonghwa made it out or not, at the time Yeosang had asked him.

Jongho had not been in the best of conditions to begin with, when he arrived at the cottage Yeosang and his family had taken shelter in. The infection of his injury had rendered him delirious for several days, and although Yeosang had feared the confrontation at first, his presence by Jongho’s bedside was wished for upon Jongho’s knowledge that Yeosang was in the same place, just a few rooms away. He had thought Yeosang to be a dream, at times an angel sent from the heavens to take him away, but Yeosang would clasp their hands together to pull him back down to earth at the very last minute, his only remaining anchor to harsh, blinding reality.

The day before his ultimate death was one of clarity, Yeosang remembers.

Jongho had been in marvelous spirits from the moment he woke up, calling for Yeosang to break the report over his improving condition, so of course, Yeosang had indulged his hopes for just one day. 

It was entirely different, talking to him. 

Talking to someone you have wronged, no matter how little fault was your own in the process – Yeosang had not believed it an easy feat to conquer, not even after years of separation had seen them both become older, stronger, mature in a sense only a war could make you, whether you liked it or not. But Jongho had surprised him with the return of the same cheerfulness he had shown Yeosang on the day they met, as much as he could from the bed that he had hardly left in the weeks past.

The topic came up eventually. It was inevitable. Yeosang had been carrying around the weight of his guilt without ever having much of a proper chance – let alone the courage – to explain himself to Prince Jongho himself. And there he was, back then, with his heart in his throat as Jongho asked for a hand in his, as he had done so often in the days prior, though for the first time with a clear mind. His eyes shone brightly as he squeezed it with little strength, and apologized to Yeosang.

Yeosang did not understand, not at first – for Prince Jongho was the sole person of innocence in this entire scheme, the only one who had done no wrong to anyone.

“Except,” Jongho had rasped, “to you.”

Yeosang had been confused, as words of his own apologies burst out of him, but Jongho had stopped him with a coo, as though Yeosang was the one weak in bed to be cared for and coddled, not Prince Jongho. He had told him, “I have done you a great disservice by denying you the opportunity to explain. I was too wounded in my pride to allow you forgiveness. I am not above doing so now.”

The true tragedy struck by late afternoon, after Yeosang had thought he could not shed any more tears.

Prince Jongho’s fever had returned tenfold, then, as a late rest rendered him near unresponsive by evening.

There was not much they could do except watch the moon fade from the night sky, and Yeosang whispered well-wishes on his way and prayed for better luck in Jongho’s next life.

“If you ever get lost in the stars,” Jongho had whispered, eyes closed with crushing exhaustion and a faint dream of what was to come, “look for me. I will come and find you.”

Only Prince Choi Jongho could give promises beyond his very own lifetime, and one would still have no doubt that he shall keep them.

Yeosang presses his forehead against the cold glass of the window, closing his eyes.

He is not quite so lost anymore, not when Jongho has already sent him a star on his way to keep him company and guide him and make him feel like he has a place in this strange, new world the war has left for them to rebuild.

Like the north star, he feels familiar, yet so odd and at a distance now. Yeosang cannot know what tomorrow brings, what shall happen once the sun is rising on the horizon and Seonghwa will return to the house. There are so many questions he wishes to ask him, only a minuscule amount of which he will even call appropriate and sensible, but he shall not begrudge Seonghwa should he not have an answer to them, or simply not an intention to give it out so freely, even to Yeosang.

He asks the moon to give them his blessing before he returns to the bed, body succumbing to the fall into deep sleep.

  
  
  


“Ah, Yeosang, there you are!” Wooyoung calls, as he spots him by the window, scoffing when he realizes why Yeosang is not attending his duties. “Your time is spent better working instead of dreaming the day away waiting for him to arrive, you lovesick fool.”

“I am not—dreaming the day away,” Yeosang replies in defense – though waiting, that he certainly is. But he is only investigating the courtyard before the house whenever he passes the window in the grand staircase overlooking – if he must fetch supplies from the upper floors more often than usual, well. Wooyoung does not have any need for the finer details of how he chooses to fulfill his responsibilities. 

“Why deny it? You have been downstairs for maybe half an hour this morning, at most,” Wooyoung crosses his arms in front of his chest, and Yeosang smiles at him, hoping Wooyoung will read his innocence from his lips. “Don’t you wear that smile, I know what you have been doing. You are not accomplishing anything today if you keep watching the streets for someone who has been at this house for an entire hour already.”

At this, Yeosang cannot help but perk up. “Seonghwa is here already? How did I not notice?” Yeosang wonders, mumbling to himself, and Wooyoung gives a short laugh in amusement.

“Your abilities in surveillance must not be quite as sharp as you thought,” Wooyoung grins, “I would have told you sooner, but I could not find you in _any_ of the places I expected you to be working. A true pity, in all honesty, since you were working so diligently all morning.”

Yeosang pushes against Wooyoung’s shoulder with the strength of a young child. Wooyoung’s sarcasm enough of a reason for improper behavior, so he sticks his tongue out towards him – an action Wooyoung imitates instantly, cackling afterwards, but Yeosang is already walking past him and down the stairs, barely hiding his eagerness from Wooyoung.

“He is in the drawing room on the first floor, with Yunho,” Wooyoung calls after him, and Yeosang remembers to be polite, replies, “Thank you, loveliest of cousins,” and quickens his steps. Then, he stops, rolls his eyes when an air of expectancy has him turn right around and return to Wooyoung, who is holding his cheek out for Yeosang to admire and plant a kiss on.

“You may go now,” Wooyoung says, with the nerve of a man who does not deserve _half_ of the affections he demands of Yeosang and yet asks for them at any given moment, and sends him off with a wink, “Do not do anything I would not do.”

Yeosang shakes his head and allows an unceremonious snort, “I shall try and behave.”

Even with the remnants of the teasing still present in Wooyoung’s expression, his mouth rises to a soft, almost proud smile, and it is the last thing Yeosang sees before he runs off. Yeosang has no doubt that Wooyoung is expecting something to come of whatever conversation Yeosang and Seonghwa shall have soon, but Yeosang hears a nervous whisper in the back of his head, a cause for concern, then another one telling he had better be careful with Seonghwa – Yeosang cannot imagine Seonghwa is as fully recovered as he claims, and Yeosang would not wish to burden him any further with his insistent request for answers.

As Yeosang walks through the corridors of Yunho’s manor, passing house guests and servants and citizens of the city, he knows his fears are not strong enough to keep him from seeing the man he owes so much to - his life, most of all. For if hope had not come to him on that evening in a winter of three years ago, Yeosang would not have known what to do with his soiled soul, nor with the prospect of spending his remaining days lonely and a disgrace to his family, as he would drag their reputation through the mud with him.

Park Seonghwa had made him see that there were things more important in life; the people who loved him cared for him, not in regards to his relative societal status, not in regards to popularity or false politeness – they cared for Yeosang in his purest self, for his humor, for his sensibility, for his endurance and his perseverance.

Yeosang knows that even back then, it had not ever been easy for Seonghwa to go about his days, a dark shadow always looming over him as though to shield him from any semblance of happiness – not that night, however. Yeosang remembers clarity in-between tears and cries, remembers Seonghwa on his knees to give a promise to be a better man for Yeosang – though, to Yeosang, a friend who would do most anything to ensure that Yeosang would see the light in the darkness was the best sort of man possible.

And yet, as Yeosang reflected upon Seonghwa’s words in the days that followed, he had realized that the promise was not only a vow to Yeosang, but to Seonghwa himself, who was tired of the life he lived, of the way he had been treated and treated himself, who sought a path out of the endlessly-winding labyrinth of his mind.

Yeosang hopes that he can lend a hand in the never-ending journey to freedom.

He does not knock before he throws the doors open, without much care at all because he knows his arrival must be expected – to some extent, at least. Both Yunho and Seonghwa startle at the sudden noise, turning as fast as a whip to see who is so rudely interrupting them – Yeosang pays no mind to the knowing grin that rises to Yunho’s face at the sight of him.

“You came back,” Yeosang says, quite unnecessarily, though his brain all but malfunctions when his eyes fall on Seonghwa, somehow even more marvelous in the daylights, the smile on his face brighter than the spring’s sun. Its rays could not even dream of rivaling him.

“Of course,” Seonghwa replies, not a single ounce of doubt in his tone, his stature, his entire demeanor. “I promised, did I not?”

Yeosang smiles at him, walking inside as their gazes remain interlocked. When Yeosang comes to stand before Seonghwa, however, he has to swallow the lump in his throat before he speaks – it had formed within the few quick strides he had taken, though that appears to be the only place his entire supply of determination has gone towards.

Seonghwa is in no better condition, if Yeosang may be so free to say it – although he has remembered to return the friendly smile, his mouth opens up several times to give a proper start to their conversation, but it falls closed every time his mind seems to decide better on the intended words.

Out of the corner of his eye, Yeosang registers Yunho pressing his lips together in a weak attempt to conceal his amusement. Seonghwa notices it, breaks eye-contact with Yeosang to regard Yunho with a slight glare, far too amicable to be as reprimanding as it aims to be.

“Count Jeong, would you leave us the room for a moment?” Seonghwa asks Yunho, polite as ever, and Yunho nods almost feverishly.

“Of course, of course,” Yunho says, holding his hands behind his back as he gives a small bow of his head, eyes twinkling with something Yeosang cannot possibly stand the sight of when Yunho looks at him. He winks, to top it all off, and murmurs, “Good luck,” into Yeosang’s ear as he passes him.

Apparently, it is not just Wooyoung who reads a deeper meaning into this meeting.

Yeosang is starting to believe there is an audience holding their breath with him, kept in suspense for an entire day as the events unfold before them in real-time, with Yeosang and Seonghwa in the roles of the protagonists.

Before, Yeosang did take a liking to an evening at the opera – grotesque as the images were that the theater company would present to them, Yeosang had always felt entranced by those colorful costumes, by the skilled actors and actresses, by the way the entire room felt warm and alight with new revelations as the stage turned their world upside down before any war ever could.

The scale may be—not quite so large, he will admit, but Yeosang cannot help but wonder what Yunho or Wooyoung believe is going to happen. What has them on the edges of their seat and so, so invested in the lives of their friends.

The door clicks shut at last, and Yeosang blinks back to attention. The air is awkward, a little strange despite their evident elation over being able to see each other like this, alone, a private moment just for them. Their bubble is light and pink, pulling them close but muting them, both of them afraid to burst it with one wrong move, one wrong word.

“Seonghwa—”

“I am glad you—”

If they pop it together, though, that could not be much of a bad omen, could it? It is freeing, this way.

They laugh, in relief and in embarrassment, but most of all, in tandem with each other, for stumbling into each other’s space so naturally, so in tune. It releases a weight from Yeosang’s heart, allows his lungs a little more room to breathe. 

“Please,” Seonghwa gestures with his hand, “you speak first.”

Yeosang clears his throat, “I—Yes.”

And that is about as far as he seems to get – he does not even know what he is agreeing to. 

When Yeosang does not have the strength to revive his voice within the few seconds of confusion that follow, Seonghwa’s expression turns to one of pitiful sympathy, and he asks, “Should I speak first?”

Yeosang can only nod, hands rising to hide his quickly reddening face, but Seonghwa catches them before he has any chance. “There is no need to hide from me, remember?” Seonghwa tells him, letting their fingers connect, and he waits until Yeosang catches his eyes again in a shy gaze before Seonghwa lets his lips quirk up at one side, and dear God, Yeosang is so unbelievably fond of him and of his tender ways, of the reassurance he offers in but a sentence and his affections. How did Yeosang ever get so lucky to be his preferred recipient?

And then, as if struck by lightning, as if a divine force has planted the thought into his head, Yeosang realizes what is most important, between the two of them – a quiet sort of understanding, a kinship in tragedy, in trauma, in believing that the world might have left you behind when it is the true enemy to falsely cast them out, or treat them as though they had no right to be a part of it.

They have never gone through the exact same experiences, not even close – even so, when the sun set on a day of dread, both of them were left with each other as a sole comfort, and it marked the beginning of a connection that Yeosang has yet to understand.

And compared to others, other people they know and love, who know and love them, there is something else, something just as deep and meaningful but _different_. The ability to share the contents of your entire soul, not with words, as they were so scarce between them if Yeosang truly thought about it – no, no, in fact; Yeosang feels as though he has had an entire discussion with Seonghwa, in just stares and gazes and touches, in kisses to hand and forehead, in everything else but broken whispers of their names.

Seonghwa can read him as no one else can. Seonghwa sees beneath the shyness and rattles at its roots, chopping away at them before they might fester within his insecurities, too, render him speechless even when is with someone like Seonghwa, someone who has never judged nor would he ever dare to do so.

But Yeosang does not need his vocal cords to be fully functional, not when he knows there are other options to pursue his expressions of comfort, of gratitude.

Before Seonghwa begins to talk, Yeosang frees his hands from Seonghwa’s hold, as gently as is able, never breaking the lock between their stares, and then, he lifts his arms in a slow motion, wrapping them around Seonghwa’s throat. At the same time, he moves in closer, setting his chin atop Seonghwa’s shoulder – before he can think any better of it, one of his hands guides Seonghwa’s arm towards his waist, boldness taking over doubt, and his heart starts picking up a beat so fast, Yeosang is certain Seonghwa must feel it knocking on his chest, when Seonghwa follows the clear instruction and rests his own arms around Yeosang, holding him as close as neither of them ever dared.

“I am glad you are well,” Seonghwa whispers into his ear, voice stricken with _feeling_ , a little shock, too, though that is no surprise when Yeosang all but threw himself at him – emotionally speaking, at least.

“Me too,” Yeosang answers, his mouth deciding it has done enough work against him.

They have never shared an embrace quite like this one before – short, heartfelt ones were among its predecessors, and Yeosang shall most definitely never forget the peace he felt when Seonghwa had gathered him to his chest for but a moment three years prior, in the very same spot they stand in now.

This time, it is—liberating, almost. Everything unsaid flowing out of them now, into each other, as they curl into an embrace that cannot be misunderstood.

Yeosang has blended out everything but Seonghwa, Seonghwa, Seonghwa, and he shudders through a deep breath, laughing as his arms wind further around to clutch at Seonghwa in any manner they can.

“I have dreamed of this, so many times. You would not believe me if I told you,” Seonghwa murmurs, a confession beneath a low, almost sad chuckle, and Yeosang tilts his head up to find Seonghwa’s eyes have closed. “Of seeing you, alive and well and—content. _Safe_. Within my arms.”

Yeosang feels the fingers at his lower back roam upwards, leaving a mild burn behind that is far too pleasant to disappear so quickly. Yeosang tucks his head into the crook of Seonghwa’s neck, one of his palms against his nape, playing between the collar of his suit and the fine, soft hair he discovers there.

“I did not think it would ever happen again,” Seonghwa says.

“I am here,” Yeosang replies, presenting his own share of soothings to Seonghwa, “in your arms. I am here.”

He knows it is hard to believe. Especially after the horrors the war has made them suffer through, Seonghwa more so than Yeosang.

Yeosang is aware that, as much as their communication works so well through touch alone, there are just some topics of discussion that can only be heard, not felt.

And so, it is with a heavy heart that Yeosang pulls back, not too far, but far enough to feel the palms against his back stiffen in fright, far enough for Seonghwa to address his wide, questioning gaze at Yeosang, whose hands fall to his cheeks.

“I am here,” Yeosang repeats, louder, firmer, ready to say it over and over again to make sure they both remember it until the day they die. “I will not go this time.”

What would have happened, three years ago, if Yeosang had not left the drawing room after Seonghwa had consoled him?

Foolish things, perhaps, for which it had neither been the right time nor the right place yet. Although Yeosang has learned the lesson that there might never be a perfect time for anything in life, that you should reach for the stars as soon as you set sight on them, three years ago, he would not have been ready, nor able to make heavy decisions that would have a lasting impact on the future of two very troubled, very burdened individuals.

The implications of a promise have never left Yeosang’s mind, however, so he shall onto it fast enough until—today, perhaps. Maybe another day. It does not matter, not anymore. Yeosang is patient enough to wait. 

“So much has happened since I have last seen you,” Seonghwa says, “I hardly know where to start.”

Yeosang’s hands gravitate to Seonghwa’s neck once more, interlocking at the nape. The blood that has risen to his cheeks – to Seonghwa’s as well, a sign of delight – is making him feel entirely too hot for a day in early spring, but Yeosang finds that he does not mind if being close to Seonghwa is the ultimate cause.

“We have all the time in the world now, do we not?” Yeosang asks, the smile returning, and he rejoices in the fact that it is _true_. No force in the world now stands between them, not a war, not their society, nothing that has any bearing on them or this—whatever it is, whatever it has yet to become. “What is three years to us, if we have several more to make up for all the lost time?”

Seonghwa breathes out another soft laugh, eyes falling shut for a moment, before he rests his forehead against Yeosang’s, saying, “You are right,” and withdraws. “Although I wish—I wish I could spare you and me from recounting all of these gruesome details.”

“We can take it step by step,” Yeosang suggests, “nobody is in a hurry any longer. We have all the time we need to heal.”

Yeosang does not recall the instant between then and now when his brain finally tuned into this conversation, when his thoughts have started to remain coherent even as he speaks them, but he is glad for it, if it puts Seonghwa at ease as much as it does him.

Seonghwa sighs, regardless, as if to brace himself, and he says, “I—I heard you were there when Prince Jongho died—may his soul find rest, wherever he is.”

Yeosang nods, answering with a heavy tongue, “I was. It was his leg, the wound caused an infection that he could not shake—he had been better for a day, but then…”

“It must have been very hard to see him suffer like this,” Seonghwa says, one of his hands suddenly close to Yeosang’s face as nimble fingers push strands of his hair over his ear. Yeosang had not bothered to cut it in quite a while, it has grown to shoulder length, and for most of his days, he keeps it in a ponytail, neatly tucked out of the way as he tends to the sick and helps those in need.

In his haste to get himself ready in the morning, and later as he ran faster than he ever had to get to Seonghwa, some of his hair must have gotten loose. Yeosang simply did not care enough to make certain he looked his best, not when he knew Seonghwa would see past anything that was not of immediate importance.

“It was difficult, yes,” Yeosang confirms, thinking back to those last few days. He would not trade them for anything in this world, as much pain as they brought upon him. “But he and I, we—we made peace with each other in those days I spent caring for him. Jongho was kind enough to forgive me for my crimes against him, and I shall honor his memory with gratitude for that reason alone.”

Seonghwa watches him for the fraction of a second, figuring him out, but he still says, “I hope you have come to see that you were not at fault, back then?”

“I know,” Yeosang replies, smiling at him, smoothing out the frown on Seonghwa’s face with a gentle touch. “But I did enough to hurt him, and that is enough of a bad deed to warrant a thousand apologies, if you ask me. Prince Jongho did not deserve my rejection, and not even the fact that we were not meant to be together can change any of that.”

The mixture of pride and doubt in Seonghwa’s expression are enough to deem Yeosang’s gentle prodding for naught, as it brings back the furrow of his brows tenfold, but Yeosang accepts its presence, because he knows it will only return either way.

“I am—relieved. For the both of you,” Seonghwa tells him. “I did not know he survived that battle, in all honesty. If only I had known, I am sure I could have arranged for something…”

“You forget that Jongho is quite rich himself,” Yeosang reminds him, shaking his head, “or, well, he was. His sister made certain he could not want for anything, in spite of the war raging on around us. Though, I do not think it comes as a surprise to you, that a dying man has no need for fanciness or luxury any longer, aside from the bed he sleeps in and the medicine meant to relieve his pains.”

And the company he keeps, after all, is priceless – not that it could have saved him, at the end of the day, but Yeosang is certain that Prince Jongho would have been more than happy to find Seonghwa lived through the entire ordeal to breathe through another sunrise.

“Still,” Seonghwa says.

It is inescapable, Yeosang thinks – the guilt one feels over not being there for a dear friend when his time has come too soon. Seonghwa must be all the more prone to it.

“There is nothing else you could have done to protect him from what was to come,” Yeosang says, a rueful smile on his lips, dancing in his tone, “I tried, and yet I failed to prevent it because fate had already dealt his cards.”

Seonghwa hums, “I would like to believe we have a choice in the paths that we take. I would not be standing here with you, if I had let fate continue to take the reins over my life.”

“Death is something out of our control, Seonghwa,” Yeosang argues, a little surprised that Seonghwa would steer the conversation into such a different direction.

“You misunderstand me, I—” Seonghwa huffs, looks away and back, insistence shining through his irises. “I do not mean to be—disrespectful, or insensitive. I apologize. All I wish to convey is that—although it might appear as though the books of our lives have already been written, and our reader is relentless and impatient in their pace to skim through our stories, there is nothing wrong with hoping for another turn. Nor with asserting control over all of which you can, for you are more than a puppet in a play of amusement, and you have every right to make your life your own without something like a divine prophecy or intervention.”

Seonghwa speaks with such determination, with such conviction, it strikes awe deep within Yeosang’s core, for the man he once knew to be so lost in his own sorrows appears to have risen from them, soaring through a clear sky while the sun smiles upon him.

“I know that Prince Jongho’s death could not have been a page to be rewritten as we pleased, but—I still would have wished to be of help. In any manner I would have been able to.”

Yeosang regards him for a moment, silent as he tries to fit the puzzle pieces together inside his mind.

There is something new and something old, Seonghwa is himself and he is not, and Yeosang finds it hard to combine two opposites that should be adversaries and yet they are not, for Seonghwa is—he is—

“Strange,” Yeosang breathes, despite himself. Judging from the fall of Seonghwa’s face, it is not the response he must have been expecting. “You are—the same, and yet you are not. You are still so you, so kind and wonderful and—I do not know how to express it but there is something so different about you now. As though those three years have taken you away and replaced you with a look-a-like.”

“Not quite,” Seonghwa has the decency to smile, though it looks pained more than anything. “As far as I know, I am still myself in every meaning of the word. I am still the friend you have always known.”

_And yet – you are more to me than that. Far more than words could ever describe._

Yeosang flexes his fingers against Seonghwa’s neck one last time before he withdraws them entirely, words of apology to his offense on the tip of his tongue, when Seonghwa beats him to it.

“I could… also say the same about you, dear Yeosang,” Seonghwa murmurs, his arms disappearing from Yeosang’s lower back, snaking towards his hands to grasp them again, lightly, gently, and he holds them as if to inspect the treasure in his possession. “I think change is inevitable. Even without this war, I believe that we needed those three years very badly, to work on ourselves first and foremost. I trust that you have done so, to banish the devil Song Mingi and his influence on you from your mind, to see that you have value outside of your relationships and the honor they may or may not bring upon yourself.”

Seonghwa takes a deep breath. “Before I joined Prince Jongho in the final throws of battle, I was—caught up in managing the chaos my life had become after Hongjoong and I separated. I apologize that all of your letters to me went unanswered, but you must know that I simply did not have the heart to give a proper reply before I did not sort through this sheer endless amount of obstacles I had to overcome before I could finally—finally feel… at peace. With myself. With the world that was falling to ruin around me. It was never quite so easy, I—had to take steps back countless times, for which I try not to feel as ashamed as I do. But I took charge of my life and—now I stand before you, somehow. Different but the same. Proud of the man that is standing before _me_.”

Yeosang does not take note of the tears on his cheek until a tender touch wipes them all away, and he blinks and blinks and blinks to get rid of them, but they shall not stop even as he wills them to. Seonghwa does not seem to mind as he gathers the evidence of Yeosang’s inner turmoil and discards it, smiling at him with such immeasurable softness that it has Yeosang’s heart shed tears of its own.

Not a soul is deserving of Park Seonghwa in their lives – least of all Yeosang, he thinks. To be so favored by him, it is a pleasure and a privilege, and Yeosang truly attempts to allow the feeling to find acceptance inside of him.

He is aware that there is far more to it than Seonghwa is currently revealing – far more pain, far more healing, far more dread and worry and hope and joy than just one conversation could express. But they have time, and not all burden must be carried at once, nor alone.

They have each other’s back, now.

They have each other back.

“Do you regret it?” Yeosang cannot help but ask, and it is in a tone that is barely loud enough to be heard, but Seonghwa’s proximity makes up for it. “Parting from Hongjoong?”

Although Seonghwa must not have seen the question coming from miles and miles away, his reaction is tame, calm and collected, and he answers with a steady, “No.”

Perhaps, Yeosang’s eyes shimmer with too much hope as he looks up to Seonghwa, once again asking for too much, too soon, in but one gaze, but Seonghwa indulges him, and he does not stray from the stare, instead meeting it with courage.

“We were making each other miserable. It was the wisest decision either of us could have made,” Seonghwa explains. He laughs, though there is no humor to it. “Hongjoong is a rather amicable person when he is not married to me, you see,” Seonghwa says, though the self-deprecating tone such a sentence would have held three years ago is nowhere to be found today. “He has written to me of his new marriage a few months ago. He is much happier now. As am I. We were not a good match from the beginning, and I was a fool to ever believe otherwise.”

“You are not a fool," Yeosang insists, his fingers playing with the collar of Seonghwa's shirt with an absent mind. “You are not a fool to hope for a good marriage to a person who loves you.”

“I know, my dear,” Seonghwa answers, “thank you. Seeing you—Talking to you. It helped to put everything into a new perspective I could no longer ignore.”

“Me neither,” Yeosang says, but his voice is brittle, so brittle, a fragile little thing useless with the emotion it must stem. “Although it did take me quite a while to fully realize—what it all meant to me, in the end.”

“Now look at us,” Seonghwa says. “We are in a better place, are we not?”

Yeosang can only nod and smile through his tears, pressing his palms against his closed eyes to finally banish them from making his face all red and puffy, though when Seonghwa takes his fingers away to hold the palms between his hands, Yeosang's breath catches at the sight before him when he opens his eyes again.

With a groan, Seonghwa has lowered himself onto one knee, eyes trained on Yeosang with an earnestness that leaves Yeosang speechless yet another time today.

“Three years ago, I offered my heart to you in spirit, for I could not give it to you yet. I promised you that if I was the best man I could be, if I was free, I would ask you for your hand. All of this time, from the moment Hongjoong and I separated, I could not think of anything else. I do not know whether you even remember it, or if I am a fool, after all, for believing you might even consider me as a husband.”

Yeosang has never made sure to prove someone wrong so fast, as he repeats, as solemn as his vocal cords allow him, “You are not a fool. You could never be a fool.”

The sound still comes out breathless, but Yeosang hopes Seonghwa will forgive him – shock, as delightful as it may be, has that sort of effect on the unsuspecting.

Seonghwa looks to have lost an entire weight on his back, as his entire posture relaxes just so. The grip he has on Yeosang's hands tightens, ironically enough.

“I am glad,” he says, licking his lips. “You told me back then that you would say yes—” 

“In a heartbeat,” Yeosang whispers, the memory as fresh in his mind as it is in Seonghwa’s, and now that Seonghwa is not there to catch them, the tears run without abandon, uncaring for Yeosang’s resolution not to cry anymore.

“I have held these words close to my heart for so long, as a reminder that—you would always be there. Even if I had come back to find you in love with someone else, I—I know that I would have been beyond happy for you, because after all that you have gone through, you deserve nothing more than a man who loves you with all his heart. No conditions asked.

“And I—I still wish for nothing more than to be that man for you, but—” Seonghwa stops, lowering his head, and panic surges into Yeosang's chest like a wildfire. “But I must tell you something first, before I can allow you to accept or refuse the question I wish to ask you.”

It dawns on Yeosang, then, what it is that still plagues Seonghwa's mind even as he is already baring his soul's content to Yeosang.

“I know,” Yeosang reveals, “I know and I do not care.”

Seonghwa’s head whips up fast, “How… How could you possibly know?” There is no anger in his voice, no resentment, just plain confusion, and an undeniable amount of dread. All of a sudden, the difference in height is no longer as romantic as before, and Yeosang kneels down in front of him, levels him with a look so tender it must be devastating to see with the tears still leaving traces on his face.

“I am in debt to Choi San for bringing you home to me, even if he did not know that the good deed he has done served not only the people he has saved, but those that love them just as much,” Yeosang explains, channeling all of his strength and resolve into the keeping his voice as stable as possibly can, “Yunho did not break your trust, I assure you. Neither did Choi San. Not on purpose, anyway. But all of the signs pointed into that direction and—I am right, am I not?”

Seonghwa sounds so small, when he answers, “you are. You are.”

“And I assure you,” Yeosang goes on, moves closer until their foreheads touch again, “there is nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be scared of. Not now, nor in the future. I have told you, we have all the time in the world to heal and take it step by step. And I will remain by your side through all of it, the good and the bad. If you will let me; that is my promise to you.”

Yeosang thought it a bit unfair at first, how he was the only one crying between the two of them. But now, as he tastes salt against his lips, feels wetness beneath his touch, he cannot help but wonder what has made them become such a mess, clutching at each other on the floor of Jeong Yunho's drawing room, Seonghwa's spectacles a bit of an obstacle in the much-uncoordinated kiss Seonghwa is giving him.

Yeosang takes them off of him, reminiscent of the act he did three years before.

Funny how the echo still rings around the room, lingering. How it all ties back to them.

“So? Will you ask the question?” Yeosang asks, a teasing lilt in his tone, when their lungs break them apart to catch their breaths, and Seonghwa watches him with so much love, Yeosang has to hold himself back from diving right in again.

Seonghwa releases a hearty laugh, but he does not waste a single second before he says, “Kang Yeosang. You are my greatest source of inspiration. The single person I have loved ever since I had any real grasp on what love is truly meant to be. Do you think you could choose to love me for an entire lifetime?”

Yeosang whispers, “I know I could. I already _do_.”

Seonghwa’s happy laughter shall forever be engraved into his memory, Yeosang thinks, and it is going to be but the first of many they shall make together.

They are both aware that the war may be a thing of the past, but that it has left its marks fresh in all of them, no matter how invisible they appear at first glance.

Yeosang will not shy away from this outlook on true contentment.

He will hold a hand in his, full of joy that a wish upon a star has come true, and he shall thank the moon for its generosity.

Seasons pass in silence, as peace ebbs and flows through a new world.

Yeosang is going to do everything in his power to see that it shall stay for as long as he lives.

  
  
  


(“They have been in there for quite a while now, Yunho.”

“Wooyoung, dear, I assure you, they would never dare do inappropriate things on _my_ furniture.”

“How can you be so certain? They have been madly in love with each other for years without knowing it, there must be quite the amount of pent-up emotions at play, they are but mere slaves to them. If it were San and me, I could not promise you that I would not absolutely ravage him— ”

“Thank you, Wooyoung. That is enough of that. Remind me to never let Choi San into my house.”

“Who says that he has not already been here before?”

“Jung Wooyoung!”) 

**Author's Note:**

> re: seonghwa's trauma: seonghwa has been taken a prisoner in the aftermath of the fires that were meant to lay the capital to waste. when defeat of the enemy forces was imminent, he and other prisoners, mostly commoners, were walked out of the city by force, in deep winter. this is the same thing which happens to pierre in war & peace towards the end of the book. his decision to marry yeosang was partly influenced by this experience, as with this and any other thing that has happened during the three years they were apart, seonghwa has realized that time and life are two precious things, and that he wishes to take rein on them as much as he can, spend them in happiness with someone he knows he loves.
> 
> as you can probably tell, this fic means... quite a lot to me. so, if you have anything to say about it? make my day with a kudo? a comment? i would be delighted. 
> 
> either way, i thank you for reading through this, if you have. i thank rai especially for accompanying me through the ordeal of the writing process.
> 
> i hope you get through these stressful times. stay safe, as best you can.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/sangiebyheart) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/sangiebyheart)


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